At The Leaky
by gingerale22
Summary: Neville thinks about Hannah's breasts and why she doesn't wipe down The Leaky's counter by magic.


Neville couldn't help but notice that Hannah Abbott's breasts were smaller than Madam Rosmerta's

Neville couldn't help but notice that Hannah Abbott's breasts were smaller than Madam Rosmerta's. After all, he'd practically grown up ogling the barmaid and using her breasts as the yardstick for all others. Not that anyone ever noticed. Neville thought that was one of the best things about being as plain and _nice_ as he was. He could be as randy and perverted as the next boy, but no one would ever suspect him.

Still, he tried to steer clear of thoughts of Hannah's breasts, or any other part of her body for that matter. Hannah was a good friend, which made him feel bad about perving on her. Plus, he was already twenty-six, which was not an age when crude thoughts of the opposite sex could be excused.

It was impossible that she didn't know any bar-top cleaning charms. Hannah has always been pretty good at Charms back at Hogwarts. And she owned a pub, for crying out loud! Neville thought he should remind her of one nevertheless, so she wouldn't have to bend low and wipe the counter the Muggle way. The bending bit was responsible for revealing the tops of her breasts to the naked eye, and the wiping motion was the one causing them to jiggle attractively.

Neville felt his blood redistribute itself unevenly—half seemingly going to his face while the other half went to his nether regions. _Stop it, Longbottom!_

He'd heard Hermione talk of karma before, but now it was approaching him personally. Just while his face burned red, and his erection strained uncomfortably in his pants due to thoughts of Hannah Abbott's breasts, Hannah Abbott finished wiping the counter, and started walking toward him.

Bugger.

There was nothing to do but pretend that everything was normal and wait for his, "humiliation," to subside. He'd tried dirty thoughts of Snape and Filch before, but those had only failed and scarred him for life. So as Hannah approached his table, he downed his third glass of gillywater, took a deep breath, and smiled.

"Hi, Nev! Mind if I join you?"

He shook his head. "'Course not! You own the place, after all." At least with Hannah this close he'd be forced to look at her face… right?

Hannah chuckled. "What a way to make a lady feel welcome." Neville could only duck his head shyly at that remark.

She brought over two bottles of butterbeer for them to enjoy, and took a long swallow from hers as she sat down next to him. Neville noticed that Hannah's neck was a different sort of pale compared to the rest of her visible body, and figured that he kind of liked that. He sought out the freckles that were sprinkled on the bridge of her nose. They always reminded him of Ginny, although Hannah was not like Ginny at all. For one, Hannah was blonde. And also, Ginny had this slightly weary look about her, probably from years of battling for dominance with six older brothers, while Hannah had a calm and open face which seemed to smile at everyone at all times.

Hannah didn't speak much as she sat next to him. She just drummed her fingers on the table and stared off into space. Neville didn't feel pressured to fill in their silence with chatter, either; they were fairly comfortable in each other's conversational quirks. The two of them did this every Sunday—he'd stop by The Leaky Cauldron after visiting his parents at St. Mungo's, and Hannah would join him once most other patrons had left for elsewhere.

A little more than a year ago, Tom the barman had died, and Hannah Abbott, his barmaid, had taken over The Leaky. Most of the patrons had decided to leave when new management took over—they went to a shady pub near Knockturn Alley—but all had returned in less than a week. Neville had shaken his head at the momentary foolishness. So what if Hannah was a girl? Madam Rosmerta had managed the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade well enough! Yes, she did get Imperiused for around half a year, but that wasn't because she was a woman, or because she was a subpar barkeep. Because she wasn't

Two years prior to Tom's death, Hannah had arrived at The Leaky to work at the pub. Neville, fresh from a visit with his parents, had stopped by The Leaky to grab a drink before returning to Hogwarts. He hadn't known Hannah very well, back then. He only barely remembered her from Dumbledore's Army during fifth year and had heard in sixth year that her mother had been killed by Death Eaters. He'd completely lost track of her after she left school when her mother died. That night, it was a surprise to see her tending the tables.

Although notoriously easy to rattle, and Neville really didn't want to say anything more about that—pot and kettle—she'd seemed smart enough to land a job at the Ministry or maybe work in Charms research. So why did she end up working as a barmaid?

Apparently, Hannah'd never managed to finish school and take her N.E.W.T.S. like the rest of them had. After her mother died, she'd stayed at home until she turned of age, after which she tried out one odd job after another. Neville never really asked about Hannah's past when they talked. Tidbits just sort of cropped up during their conversations—she picked up this certain recipe when she'd worked for a baker in Edinburgh, she knew of this certain potion because of the time she helped out her brother in Diagon Alley, she read about the new breed of Venomous Tentacula while pushing paper for the Prophet. Then, she came to The Leaky and worked for Tom.

The biggest change Hannah had made as new owner of The Leaky, in Neville's opinion, was the soft piped-in music she had floating from the walls. Most of the other patrons didn't even care about that—they'd only protested when Hannah changed the heavy, dirt-maroon drapes into light blue curtains—but Neville thought the music brought a different sort of character to The Leaky. He couldn't say exactly what that _character_ was, only that it was different. _Better._

"Do you dance, Neville?" Hannah asked, not turning to face him.

Neville blushed even more, although his erection had long since faded, thankfully. His mind flashed back to the Yule Ball in fourth year, when he'd accidentally stepped on Ginny's toes while he was trying to dance with her. "Er-I'm afraid I don't, Hannah. Gran thinks it's a waste of time, and it was really only me and Gran when I was growing up."

She finally turned to look at him.

"Aside from my parents, of course, but you know about them."

Hannah gave him a small, sad smile, which he supposed was better than an apology. For what? She wasn't the one who had tortured them to insanity.

"My mum taught me how to dance."

Neville took a large gulp of his butterbeer, and only _barely_ avoided choking. They'd never really talked about Hannah's mum, and he didn't think he could handle it if they started now. They talked about her even less than Neville's parents, which was nearly next to never. Even then talk of their respective parents—Hannah's father died of dragonpox when she was four—had been in passing. This—it felt like Hannah wanted to _really_ talk about her mum with him.

"Is that so?" was Neville's polite reply.

"Yes. She started teaching me and my older brother when he was ten and I was seven. We were partners, and we _hated_ it, absolutely hated it."

Her brother, Henry, worked at an apothecary in Diagon Alley. Neville remembered that from an earlier conversation.

"She would flick her wand like so and music would start playing." Hannah took out her wand from her robes and flicked it, like so, and the slow, jazzy tune changed into a moderately lively waltz. "Then she would ask Henry and me to assume our positions and dance all over the drawing room."

Hannah's smile brightened a bit.

Neville didn't have a lot of memories of his parents when he was growing up. Mostly, what he remembered of them consisted mostly of small arguments with Gran, the sterile odor of St. Mungo's, Droobles' wrappers, awkward hugs, and crying in his bedroom. Not at all happy memories, but he'd learned to tune them out, or lessen the bitterness by thinking that at least he still had his parents, unlike Harry.

He didn't have that many pleasant memories of Gran as well, not that she was a cruel grandmother. No, she was just a bit stern and protective—for his own good, he'd been told countless of times.

Great Uncle Algie was great fun, if a bit overenthusiastic with the pushing. But Neville only saw him a week every summer, which was a pitifully short time if both of them were to be asked. Still, he did give Neville the Mimbulus Mimbletonia, which had proven to have surprising antiseptic powers especially against werewolf-related injuries. He'd discovered that a year after the Final Battle, and both Bill Weasley and Lavender Brown had been very grateful.

Hannah shifted and eagerly turned in her chair to face him. "I think we should dance."

"_What?_ But I don't know how!" Neville was thankful Hannah posed that weird suggestion when he didn't have a mouthful of butterbeer, otherwise he was sure that he would have spluttered it all over her.

"I'll teach you. I've no doubt you'd learn fast enough. Even _Henry_ managed, after all," she said with a snort.

Neville wasn't sure; he knew first hand that considerable pain could be suffered by a girl whose partner didn't know how to dance. But Hannah was already standing up and pulling him to the small, open space near the bar. Like most other things in his life, he had no choice in the matter.

"You put your left hand on the small of my back, like so." Neville felt like the temperature in the pub suddenly increased ten-fold.

"And you should hold my other hand like this." Hannah's fingers felt small but firm in his hand. He bit his lip, hoping that she wouldn't notice how sweaty his palms were.

She paused and cocked her head to one side, as if she were thinking about what to cook for supper. "I'm supposed to put just my right hand on your shoulder, like this, but what I'd really like to do is wrap both of my hands around your neck." Her left hand wriggled out of his grasp and joined the right on his neck.

"Like this."

Neville swallowed his breath, choking slightly.

Hannah chuckled softly. "You can put your hand on my back as well, no need to leave it in the air like that."

He laughed at himself while he let his right hand join his left at her back. Then all of a sudden, Hannah started swaying, and Neville heard the soft music and remembered what they were supposed to be doing.

Neville could confidently say that this, "dancing," with Hannah, was the second-most frightening ordeal he'd ever gone through, topped only by the first time he was tortured by the Carrows. The face-off with Voldemort he could only vaguely remember; sheer adrenalin probably got him through that encounter. But adrenaline, that fickle ally, wasn't coming to his aid as he danced with Hannah.

He continued to sway along with her, thankful that he had yet to step on a toe or stumble on a foot. Whenever he felt dizzy from the movements, he would slow down and adjust his hands, which had moved to a cozy grip of her waist sometime during the dance. He was thankful that his strategy got him through minute after minute of the slow swaying, but he was even more thankful when he heard the music fade, and felt Hannah still in his arms.

She looked up at him, and he held her gaze bravely, for the first time noticing that her eyes were clear blue like the sky when it was a perfect day to plant dittany.

"Thank you for dancing with me," she said, her voice cracking a bit.

"Er-it was my pleasure, really."

Hannah stayed in his arms and buried her face in his chest. _Glad I took a long bath earlier_. It was an odd thought he decided to shake out of his mind since the girl in his arms obviously needed comforting, and he really shouldn't be thinking of his hygiene when there was a greater need to be addressed.

"It's been ten years since Mum died," Hannah mumbled into his chest, "I miss her."

Neville wrapped his arms completely around her now, rubbing her back soothingly. "I'm sure you do. I miss my mum, too."

"And it's been more than a year since Tom died. I miss him as well."

He didn't really say anything in reply, because he didn't know what to say. He'd imagined that the two were close since Tom had decided to leave the pub to Hannah, after all, but he never knew how close _close _really was.

"Have I ever told you why he left me The Leaky?"

Neville shook his head. "I don't think you've ever told anyone."

"He said," Hannah sniffed in the vicinity of his chest, "he said that it was tradition in his family to pass on The Leaky to their children, and that I was the closest thing to a daughter he's ever had."

Neville tightened his grip on her, protectively drawing her closer.

"I miss him. And I miss my Mum so much. And I think I miss my Dad. I've got Henry, I know, but sometimes I just feel so alone."

Neville could only pat her back and make shushing sounds. He understood what she meant, of course, but there would never be enough comfort in words for how _they_ felt. He still had his parents but he missed them, although he really didn't know what to miss, there was just this _terrible_ achy feeling in his heart and throat whenever he was in their hospital room making wrapper-art or whenever he thought of them.

They'd been standing near the bar, arms around each other, for a pretty long time judging by the crick beginning to form in Neville's neck. He didn't dare budge, however. He enjoyed feeling her warmth and how hugging her made him feel not-alone.

Hannah's breasts were pressing into Neville's ribs but he wasn't really paying attention to the feeling. Neville congratulated himself for not obsessing over Hannah's breasts at the moment they were closest to him. There really was, much more than breasts made him like Hannah, and he promised to find out about all those things starting now.

But he'd tell her about the bar-top cleaning charm later.


End file.
